Fragments
The sun did not rise over the city; the sky simply transitioned from a bruised purple to the color of a wet sidewalk.
Arthur stood before the Main Gate of the Department of Veracity. He had been summoned to verify his existence. It was a routine matter, according to the letter, though the letter had been delivered via a carrier pigeon that died immediately upon landing on his balcony.
At the entrance, a guard in a uniform three sizes too small held out a hand.
"Identification," the guard barked.
Arthur handed over his passport. The guard looked at the photo, then at Arthur, then at a mirror he held up to Arthur’s face.
"This won't do," the guard said, tossing the passport into a nearby shredder. "The photo shows a man who is breathing. You are currently holding your breath."
"I was just nervous," Arthur gasped, exhaling.
"Now you’re hyperventilating. Discrepancy noted. Proceed to the Scale."
In the center of the lobby sat a massive golden scale. On one side lay a single, dried leaf.
"Step on," a voice boomed from a loudspeaker.
Arthur stepped onto the empty plate. The scale didn't budge. The leaf remained heavier than him.
"Subject 702 weighs less than a memory," the voice announced. "This suggests a lack of substance. Are you sure you were born, Arthur? Or did you simply accumulate over time like dust in a corner?"
"I have a mother!" Arthur shouted to the ceiling. "I have a birth certificate!"
"Certificates are merely opinions printed on dead trees," the voice replied. "We require a physical anchor. Go to the Basement of Echoes and retrieve your first word. If you can bring it back in a jar, we will consider you officially 'Extant.'"
The basement was a labyrinth of filing cabinets made of glass. Inside them, sounds moved like trapped smoke.
Arthur wandered the aisles. He saw jars labeled “Laughter (Strained)” and “The sound of a door closing on an argument.” Finally, he found a small, dusty vial labeled ARTHUR: WORD ONE.
He opened it. He expected to hear "Mama" or "Dada." Instead, the vial emitted the sound of a heavy stapler clicking shut.
"That can't be right," Arthur whispered.
"Why not?"
A clerk was sitting on top of a filing cabinet, filing his fingernails with a piece of sandpaper. "Most children start with nouns. You started with an administrative sound. It was very precocious of you. It’s why you were flagged for the Department so early."
Arthur grabbed the jar and ran back to the Scale. He placed the sound of the stapler on the plate. The scale tipped violently, slamming Arthur’s side into the floor.
"Success!" the loudspeaker crackled. "You are now verified as a 'Semi-Permanent Perturbation of Space.' You may leave."
Arthur rushed to the exit. But the door he had entered through was gone. In its place was a brick wall with a small mail slot.
He looked through the slot and saw his own apartment. He saw himself—or someone who looked exactly like him—sitting on his balcony, watching a carrier pigeon spiral down from the sky.
"Wait!" Arthur hammered on the wall. "I'm out here! I’ve been verified!"
A small slip of paper slid through the slot from the other side. It was in his own handwriting:
OCCUPANCY FULL.
Please wait in the hallway until a vacancy opens up. Bring your own light source. The dark here is communal.
Arthur looked down at his hands. They were starting to look like the sky—the color of a wet sidewalk, fading into the gray of the walls.
The sun did not rise over the city; the sky simply transitioned from a bruised purple to the color of a wet sidewalk.
Arthur stood before the Main Gate of the Department of Veracity. He had been summoned to verify his existence. It was a routine matter, according to the letter, though the letter had been delivered via a carrier pigeon that died immediately upon landing on his balcony.
At the entrance, a guard in a uniform three sizes too small held out a hand.
"Identification," the guard barked.
Arthur handed over his passport. The guard looked at the photo, then at Arthur, then at a mirror he held up to Arthur’s face.
"This won't do," the guard said, tossing the passport into a nearby shredder. "The photo shows a man who is breathing. You are currently holding your breath."
"I was just nervous," Arthur gasped, exhaling.
"Now you’re hyperventilating. Discrepancy noted. Proceed to the Scale."
In the center of the lobby sat a massive golden scale. On one side lay a single, dried leaf.
"Step on," a voice boomed from a loudspeaker.
Arthur stepped onto the empty plate. The scale didn't budge. The leaf remained heavier than him.
"Subject 702 weighs less than a memory," the voice announced. "This suggests a lack of substance. Are you sure you were born, Arthur? Or did you simply accumulate over time like dust in a corner?"
"I have a mother!" Arthur shouted to the ceiling. "I have a birth certificate!"
"Certificates are merely opinions printed on dead trees," the voice replied. "We require a physical anchor. Go to the Basement of Echoes and retrieve your first word. If you can bring it back in a jar, we will consider you officially 'Extant.'"
The basement was a labyrinth of filing cabinets made of glass. Inside them, sounds moved like trapped smoke.
Arthur wandered the aisles. He saw jars labeled “Laughter (Strained)” and “The sound of a door closing on an argument.” Finally, he found a small, dusty vial labeled ARTHUR: WORD ONE.
He opened it. He expected to hear "Mama" or "Dada." Instead, the vial emitted the sound of a heavy stapler clicking shut.
"That can't be right," Arthur whispered.
"Why not?"
A clerk was sitting on top of a filing cabinet, filing his fingernails with a piece of sandpaper. "Most children start with nouns. You started with an administrative sound. It was very precocious of you. It’s why you were flagged for the Department so early."
Arthur grabbed the jar and ran back to the Scale. He placed the sound of the stapler on the plate. The scale tipped violently, slamming Arthur’s side into the floor.
"Success!" the loudspeaker crackled. "You are now verified as a 'Semi-Permanent Perturbation of Space.' You may leave."
Arthur rushed to the exit. But the door he had entered through was gone. In its place was a brick wall with a small mail slot.
He looked through the slot and saw his own apartment. He saw himself—or someone who looked exactly like him—sitting on his balcony, watching a carrier pigeon spiral down from the sky.
"Wait!" Arthur hammered on the wall. "I'm out here! I’ve been verified!"
A small slip of paper slid through the slot from the other side. It was in his own handwriting:
OCCUPANCY FULL.
Please wait in the hallway until a vacancy opens up. Bring your own light source. The dark here is communal.
Arthur looked down at his hands. They were starting to look like the sky—the color of a wet sidewalk, fading into the gray of the walls.
